Requis Aeterna
by Miss Myshkina
Summary: "…I must say," he added, almost whispered a few moments later, "that Cesare Borgia was indeed a saint." - Souryo Fuyumi's "Cesare". Written for a contest, the theme was death (tragedy or inevitable). A piece on the happenings that take place after Cesare's death at Viana in March 1507.


Silence. The priest's voice had died off, an unquenchable sanctity of the holy event left behind his disappearance, marked by rustling, lost into thin air. The number of visitors of the church had been particularly meager; may it be by chance, or simply because the funeral, even though it sparked many tales in the lands of the West, hadn't seemed to attract many benefactors nor allies; be it out of shame, slander, or inevitable controversy.

The smoke of the candles that shone like stars in the scarcely lit chamber only gave the occasion a more frightful and obscure appeal. A few servants went in and out of the room, bringing in goods, decorations and other material, in preparation of the burial that was to ensue in the midst of the warm, lucent March afternoon. It was, perhaps, a bit too lucent for such an event to be hosted, but it was as though all was, and remained against the decedent, even in his death.

Some two hours before the ceremony would begin, Micheletto himself appeared in the church – it seemed, entirely out of the blue. In this, however, more significance was to be noted: as he was of different beliefs, the Spaniard had never before found himself inside of a Christian oratory, nor did he ever desire to visit it likewise. But there was something, something far more vigilant and dried up in him now; something that had been blossoming and grooming for years, only to be violently torn away, convicted to fade from the world in whole.

But he could not explain, he was never one for explaining; he was brought up on orders, on goodwill of the superior, another philosopher's ideal. The only opinion he was allowed, and suspected to have, was obedience, adamant and just. He was brought up to be an animal, a stone-cold bat that knows no feelings nor choices; a figure, lifeless and subdued; a doll that speaks. And yet…The sturdy heart seemed to have broken off quicker than a glass of wine dropped to the floor below, a one held by an unconscious, negligent drunkard, no less…

A drunkard, now long gone from this world for a good week.

But this new wreckage didn't prompt Micheletto to fall back on his knees and begin sniveling like some miniscule, weak child; no. Instead, he saw it as any other physical wound (a one that wasn't lethal) that can easily heal over time. But the peculiarity of this wound was that there was actually no good medicine, nor bandages to cover it up…The wound only kept bleeding, the blood splattering all over the soul; yet Micheletto was still alive…

"I thought I'd find you here."

His thoughts interrupted, Micheletto's glance drifted to the side. He didn't reply.

"Only you could bear with him in his last days…No? Or did he manage to chase you off like he did to everyone else?"

No reply. The young madam that had graced the room with her presence nonchalantly fixed her golden locks as she found a small stool and seated herself. She was dressed in a gown, of black, nightly-shaded velvet, and she had a silk overcoat covering her nude, pale shoulders.

Contempt shimmered in her eyes as she stared at Micheletto, and her rose-red lips moved in the means to speak again.

"You know…I did admire you. I admired your ability to dedicate every bit of your being to him…To the monster he had become. I _tried_, Lord knows that I did…"

Her lips shook a bit and she made a pause. However, her interlocutor was still deathly silent.

"…Well, it is only a fleeting dream in this moment, no?" she added, encouraging herself again, as her cerulean orbs focused on one of the candelabrums, "It does seem like it was only just a dream, after all these years, after the wasteland we left behind…But the problem is that we cannot erase the dream, nor the consequences it caused. The taint that it has drawn…"

She silenced again. Micheletto was most reposed, not even dignifying the young lady with a glance.

After all, that peculiar, strong feeling that harrowed his heart had made the pain in his throat rise up, and his mouth had finally unhinged.

"Donna Lucrezia," he began; his expression was still indifferent, though he turned his back to the young lady he was addressing, "There is…Much your Excellency is not aware of. I am not fit to lecture you, of course, but…The situation is…"

Micheletto knitted his brows; not out of anger, but out of contemplation.

"…I must say," he added, almost whispered a few moments later, "that Cesare Borgia was indeed a saint."

The face of young Lucrezia was filled with consternation, only to quickly be replaced with robust fury.

"What?" she blurted, not attempting to keep her irritation in secrecy, "My brother, a saint? Miguel, are you losing your mind?"

The Spaniard seemed remote for a good couple of minutes; he neither moved nor spoke, and it looked as though he froze for good, like a statue. As Lucrezia was about to walk up to him and shake him, impatient as she was, Micheletto finally turned about and faced her directly. His face looked every bit confused.

"What is this thing…That I cannot express? That I cannot define?" he said calmly, inquisitively, his gaze falling over the left half of his broad chest. He had his right hand over the latter area.

"What is this…Qualm of God? What is the meaning of it? Why do my eyes and my throat sting me?"

Lucrezia was intimidated, surprised even, as a light stream of tears descended down Micheletto's cheeks.

"Donna Lucrezia…" he called out after a pause, his glance still fixated upon his indistinct, aching heart, "Where did I go wrong?"

He turned his back to her once again; Lucrezia, phased and concerned, knew not what to do in this insane moment.

"M-Miguel…" she stammered, trying to take a step to the Spaniard but failing and quickly falling back onto the stool, her knees betraying her, "Miguel, you…You're not to blame, Miguel…No one is to blame, but…Himself…"

And in that moment, Micheletto's cup had been overflowed; agonized and in tears, he turned and walked up to Lucrezia, on a distance of half a meter, breathing heavily and quickly, eyeing the petite lady with a fusion of rage, pain and hatred.

"How? How am I not to blame?" he spat, slowly losing control of himself and his tongue, "If I am not to blame, then who is?! Look at this, look at this thing," he pointed to the large, red line that went from his chin and ended over his left eye, "I gained this for him, as if it was another favor asked of me! And this," he indicated to another, smaller wound, "This is yet another favor! I am filled in favors, graces and blessings! A favor beats in my chest like a war drum! I bathed in renown and lit up in glory, I was the right hand of a prophet! It was my duty…A _favor_…I could've…I _should've_…Saved…Honored…"

Micheletto looked faint; both of his hands were now over his sparkling two dark eyes, his nails digging into the skin on his forehead. The tears kept flowing uninterrupted. Thus he finally broke down to his knees, shivering uncontrollably, a low, passionate moan leaving his lips every now and then.

_Those born from an unholy womb_, a sonorous voice whispered into his ear, _shall be the ones reigning. The rest can only reconcile with the will of The Creator, He Who created All and destroyed All, and He Who is untimely, He Who shines and tarnishes, and He Who was, and has sacrificed; The One Whom All Did Fear._

"Whom all did fear…" Micheletto repeated loudly, his voice resignating away, into the endless, deep void of the unknown, as his vision blurred and his consciousness was removed as if somebody took it out of a showcase and threw it out…He heard rustles and sounds, voices shouting out to him, but he remained inside, buried in his steadfast, unfaltering shell…The hallmark of a soul long gone from his eyes.


End file.
